


Peeling Apart

by BlackandBlueMagpie



Series: The Sidhe of Dublin Town [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Explosions, Gen, Guns, Irish War of Independence, New AU!, Sidhe, Violence tw in general, With some description, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 17:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7540711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandBlueMagpie/pseuds/BlackandBlueMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Across Ireland War is raging, and for two young Sidhe it’s no different. Thrown into a vicious siege the two find themselves in a dangerous place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peeling Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a prompt fill from my Tumblr! A sneak preview of a Sidhe AU that I've been working on for ages but it has no full coherency yet :L  
> Enjolras is a leannán sí and Courfeyrac a gean cánach

There are shots ringing out around him, the sound of gunfire and then the hum of metal whistling past his ears, seeming far closer than any of it actually is. All he can think is that he has to get out of here, off this barricaded street. He has to find Eámhín and get somewhere else, into a doorway even. 

His hat has long since disappeared, during a scrabble that left his gloves almost worn through. His tie is ripped, knees a dusty grey. 

He spots Eámhín’s golden hair, messy and matted with debris. Lóigaire half crawls over to him, keeping his head down as he runs. 

“Are you okay?” He crouches next to his friend, who coughs his reply in the affirmative. “Get up. Come on we have to go.” 

“We can’t, everyone else-“

“We can’t do anything here. And we can do even less dead.” Lóigaire tugs on his arm. Eámhín sets his jaw, looking like he’s about to argue. His blue eyes darken for a moment. Another shot whistles past Lóigaire’s ear, far too close for comfort. Eámhín’s eyes dilate to a watery blue, his mouth falling open into a small, soundless ‘oh’. 

Red blooms across his shoulder, he sways. Lóigaire grabs his  
arms to steady him.  
“Look at me. Eámhín just look at me, breathe okay?” Eámhín’s eyes slowly turn back to him, not quite focussing. “Is the bullet still in there?”

“I can’t breathe- I can’t-“ The words trip over each other and Lóigaire pats his cheek, drawing his gaze.

“Focus.” 

“No.” He tells him more firmly, despite the tremor in his voice. 

“Can you walk? You need to walk.” The blood is beginning to trickle over his hands, warmth seeping through his gloves. “Come on.” He tugs on Eámhín’s arm, but the other man just hisses, falling forward onto his uninjured arm. “Please.”

“I can’t.” Eámhín mutters through gritted teeth, and through everything Lóigaire’s heart twists a little at the pain in his eyes. 

“We have to we-“ A shout rings out across the battlefield that used to be a street. A grenade flies across the rubble. Lóigaire reacts instinctively, grabbing Eámhín to shield him from the blast. The explosion shatters the air, sending shards flying across the empty space. 

Something burns across his face, and he can feel everything in minute detail as fragments rip the skin down his left side, across his ribs, his shoulder, scoring three lines on his cheek. 

The world is deadened for a moment, his ears ringing. Then everything comes back into shocking clarity. Metal buzzes around him, like a swarm of bees, there are shouts and cries from all sides, people searching, wounded, dying. He rocks backward.

“Lóigaire-“ Eámhín’s voice is the most distant, despite his proximity, like he’s underwater. “Oh God you’re bleeding… Oh-“ He reaches out as if to touch him but Lóigaire hits his hand away.

“Don’t.” His own voice is muffled, it hurts to move his jaw. “You’ll… We have to…” His thoughts won’t line up, bouncing off the inside of his skull. Another gun goes off close to their shelter and for a moment adrenaline courses through his veins. “We’re going.” Eámhín looks like he’s about to protest, but nods, using his good arm to crawl to a safe spot around the corner.

“Can you make it to your flat?” He murmurs to Lóigaire, who can already feel his glamour peeling away from the gashes on his face. 

“I have to.” There’s blood on his fingertips, dripping into small pools. The gloves are useless, and that makes him nervous, panicked thoughts threatening to rise up in his throat. What if someone touches it, what if they get ill, what if it’s my fault. 

“We can do it.” Eámhín tells him, bringing him back to reality. 

Progress is slow, leaning against buildings coated in a layer of thick dust, but the streets are empty. Lóigaire groans, sliding down against the wall when they arrive in his apartment, and he knows he’s making more of a mess but the wounds are hurting more now, like burns lacerating his skin. His glamour, peeling like wallpaper from his face and ribs, he lets fall to the ground around him where it disappears like mist.

“What do you want me to do?” Eámhín asks, kneeling himself as he looks around the room.

“Sort yourself first. Or I’ll do it, my gloves are in that drawer.” He gestures above his head to the dresser. He himself removes the soiled gloves, before tugging at the bottom drawer with his relatively clean hand to find the box of bandages. Eámhín wordlessly hands him a new pair of gloves.

“Those were my favourite too.” He jokes quietly, holding out a wad to Eámhín. “Turn around, can you get the shirt off?” One handed Eámhín begins undoing the buttons, shrugging off the ruined article. Lóigaire presses his own bandage to the exit wound, reaching for a long strip to begin wrapping round. “The bleeding’s nearly stopped.”

“The bullet probably semi cauterised it if the pain was anything to go by.” Eámhín gives a wince. “I think it broke my collar bone.” 

“I’ll try and call Abbán.” 

“You’re still bleeding.” 

“It’s superficial. Comparatively. Just burns like hell.” Eámhín pulls a pair of gloves out of the drawer for himself, then turning Lóigaire’s head gently. 

“They’re going to scar…” 

“That’s nothing. You need a sling.” 

“You saved my life.”

“I just protected your pretty face.” Eámhín examines his arm and ribs. “No point in having a beat up leannán sí.” 

“You of all people should know how little I care.” Lóigaire gestures for him to stop moving long enough that he can actually get a sling on him and avoid at least half of Abbán’s inevitable lecture. Eámhín looks down, suddenly exhausted by the weight of everything. “We can’t hold out much longer Lóigaire. Kerry can’t, Dublin can’t. No one can. But we can’t give up, not until we get independence. We-“ He winces, physical pain impinging on his emotionally drained face. The riots have hardly stopped, not since the first shot rang out on Halloween. No shops are open, no one can get in, no food, nothing. All they’ve heard for nearly a week are gun shots and radio bulletins from outside. As he ties the knot on the sling, a skill he’s picked up recently, he knows almost certainly that Abbán won’t dare venture out. 

“It shouldn’t be happening like this.” He says finally.

**Author's Note:**

> No Complications again last Sunday, I'm so sorry but I had several days last week where I barely sat down! But the hen/stag do is on its way ;)


End file.
